Cuffing the Chicken
by A Green Being
Summary: A Blind Justice Bakersfield PD crossover. While on a trip to California for a police convention, Christie Dunbar witnesses a murder. The boys from NYPD offer to help the Bakersfield boys solve the case.
1. Chapter 1

**Cuffing the Chicken**

"A _murder_ investigation?" Captain Aldo Stiles asked. "Here in Bakersfield? We don't have murders in Bakersfield!" He paced around his small office, the blinds half-drawn to let in just enough light, but not too much, and so it would be just dark enough, but not too dark. Life was a constant compromise at the Bakersfield PD.

"With all due respect, Captain," Sergeant Phil Hampton said, "they have murders everywhere." Sergeant Hampton was an older man, graying and thinning on top, while his middle spread and thickened under his blue uniform. He may have been known as the captain's right hand man, but really, he was also the brains behind the operation.

"_They_ have murders. _We_ don't."

"Tell that to the dead guy in the morgue."

"We have a morgue?" Captain Stiles nearly hyperventilated. He loosened the maroon tie his wife had picked out for him that morning.

"And all of this during the police convention up in Modesto."

"Police convention? Why wasn't I invited?"

Hampton patted Stiles reassuringly on the shoulder. "No idea, sir."

* * *

"Can you help me?"

"Who are you?" Detective Wade Preston asked, looking up at the man who'd just walked into the squad with a German Shepherd. "Do I know you?" Wade stood up and walked around his desk, straightening his flannel shirt over his t-shirt of Saturday Night Fever.

"My name's Jim Dunbar. I'm a detective with the NYPD. We were on our way to the police convention over in Modesto when my wife witnessed a murder." Dunbar was wearing a suit and tie. Another detective? No detective in Bakersfield would ever dress like that, not all stuffy and color-coordinated like that.

Wade was quiet a second, looking over the big city cop with his blond hair and blue eyes. Finally he said, "You look really familiar."

The other detective sighed and shifted uncomfortably. "Are you done questioning my wife yet?""

"I don't know. Do I know you?"

Detective Dunbar leaned over Wade's desk, one hand landing on the rubber ducky, which let out a pained squeak. Wade snatched the duck back as the German Shepherd looked up hungrily and licked his lips. The dog panted, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. Wade cradled the duck as Dunbar said, "Who would know?" and pretended he hadn't almost sent a duck to the great toy box in the sky.

Wade screwed up his lips and looked at the other man distastefully. Not even an apology… "I don't know who else would know if I know you," he said, hurt.

Dunbar's eyes closed a second. "Who would know if you're done questioning my wife?"

"Oh." Wade glanced across the department at the interview room and saw the head of a woman sitting in there alone. "I don't think we started yet. It's been a busy day."

* * *

"Jim!"

Jim looked up, relieved to hear a familiar voice. He'd been wandering around the Bakersfield Police Department for three hours asking questions and getting no answers. He was beginning to think that if he could find his wife, he could solve the case in an hour and be on his way.

"Tom!" Jim flung his arms out, as if he were going to sweep Tom Selway into an embrace.

Tom chuckled. "You're never _this_ happy to see me. What's going on?"

"I can't get any answers."

"Maybe I can help," the young man from earlier said, the one who'd informed Jim they hadn't even started questioning his wife yet. He sounded eager now. "My name's Wade Preston. _Detective_ Wade Preston. And I just got the case file for the investigation involving your lovely wife. Did you know she witnessed a _murder_? Here in _Bakersfield_?"

Jim sighed. "Don't tell me you're a homicide detective."

There was a pause. "No… Just a detective. We don't have a lot of murders here in Bakersfield, so a homicide detective would just be bored, sitting around all day… I bet I'd have to go out and kill someone just so I could have one murder to solve."

Jim couldn't believe his ears. "You're joking, right?"

"I did have a murder case last year, my first one," the kids said proudly.

"You solve it?"

"It's still open… I mean, what sort of a person has two right arms? When I figure that out, I'll know who died."

Jim groaned. He turned to Tom. "This kid's yanking my chain, right?" he asked quietly.

"Looks serious enough to me," Tom whispered.

"Detective Preston, this is Detective Selway, also of the NYPD," Jim said, turning back to the kid. If he could get all buddy-buddy with Preston, maybe he and Tom could get a look at that case folder and drop a few hints. In a town as small as Bakersfield, how could it be that difficult to find the murderer?

"I've always wondered," Preston said, "just what does NYPD stand for?"

Jim nearly fell over backwards. This time his mouth did drop open.

"Just kidding!" Preston clapped a hand on his arm and leaned in closer. Jim leaned back. "Is he your partner?" Preston whispered.

"No. Just in the same squad."

"Wow. You have more than two detectives?" He sounded really excited. "Did you know that Detective Selway is a black man?" Preston asked conspiratorially.

"Yeah…" Jim felt the sudden desire to run and escape any more inane questions. He was blind, not dumb. Of course he knew Tom was black.

"My partner's black, too! How cool is that?" Preston made a move and Jim suspected, but hoped he was wrong, that Tom was getting hugged. A second later Jim's fears were confirmed as he was pulled into a group hug.

* * *

Jim was standing at ease in front of a room full of cops in blue. Tom glanced over at him, wondering how he could appear so confident. Tom himself was shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Tom looked around. A bunch of officers were goofing around in the briefing room. The detective who had hugged Tom earlier kept poking his own black partner, who he'd introduced as Paul Gigante from Washington DC, and pointing excitedly at Tom. Tom still hadn't figured out what was so enthralling, but thought maybe he looked like a celebrity or something. That thought made him feel a little better.

Then again, the department's own captain was hiding in the corner and the sergeant was about to start the meeting. That wasn't proper protocol.

"Men," Sergeant Hampton said, "as you can see, we have two of New York's finest standing before you—"

"And their guide dog," one of the tall traffic cops said.

The sergeant ignored the comment. Tom glanced over at Jim, who looked only vaguely more tense, but Tom guessed Jim was used to that sort of thing. He tried to adopt the same nonchalant look, but he knew he was failing miserably.

"And they have agreed to help us solve Bakersfield's latest murder."

There was a smattering of applause.

"I wish them luck finding the body!" the captain yelled, then walked out amidst a sudden silence.

* * *

Wade sat on the corner of the table in the interview room, swinging his legs. A beautiful dark-haired woman sat demurely at the table, her legs crossed, her panty hose not run, her lipstick not smeared, her hair and clothes both designer. She wasn't like any woman Wade had ever seen in Bakersfield. He'd have bet his badge she'd never even milked a cow before. And that fascinated him.

Detectives Dunbar and Selway were both standing around at the end of the table. Wade glanced up at Dunbar, wondering how the blind guy had managed to find such a beautiful wife. Wade had laughed at the guide dog comment Denny had thrown out, until he remembered Denny Boyer wasn't one to joke around. Wade wasn't sure how'd he'd managed to overlook the dog's function earlier—maybe because he still had this feeling that James Dunbar looked uncannily familiar.

Paul Gigante was sitting comfortably at the table as if he'd seen women like Christie Dunbar every day. Wade still couldn't understand it—her marrying a guy like Dunbar when she could have had a guy like Wade. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her, suspicions flooding his head: maybe she ran some sort of illegal operation out of her home and married the blind guy so he would look the other way. And the fact that he was a cop was a good cover, too; who would ever suspect a cop's wife of doing something bad?

"Mrs. Dunbar," Paul was asking, "can you tell us anything about the perp?"

"Paul!" Wade reprimanded, "you can't ask that!"

"Why not?" Paul said.

"How's she even supposed to know what a perp is?"

"I know what a perp is," Mrs. Dunbar said.

"You do?" Wade leaned over. "I've always wondered, what is a perp?"

She blinked up at him, her green eyes disbelieving.

"Just kidding." He leaned closer to her. "But, Mrs. Dunbar, just how do you know what a perp is? Do you have some first-hand knowledge of criminal activity?"

She blinked again. "My husband happens to be a cop. I know the Miranda Rights by heart, too." She pressed her lips together snootily.

"Wade, can we just get this over with?" Paul asked.

Wade didn't move his eyes from Mrs. Dunbar's. She could very easily have first-hand knowledge of the Miranda Rights, too. If she was knee-deep in criminal activities, how on earth would her blind husband know that? It would be up to Wade to sift her out. But he'd have to be careful; he couldn't let her suspect a thing.

He straightened up and walked away. "Lighten up, Paul. Seeing these guys," he gestured at the NYPD crowd, "it's a wonder you all lived as long as you have. Why are you so _serious_ all the time?" Wade looked at Dunbar and Selway, both standing there with their arms crossed. "It's a city cop thing, isn't it? All of you from the big city and you think you're so great. Well, I can be serious, too." Wade crossed his own arms and frowned like the other three.

"Honey," Dunbar said.

"Don't call me honey," Wade said plaintively.

"I was talking to my wife."

"Oh."

"Tell us what you saw, what'd the perp look like?"

Mrs. Dunbar shifted uncomfortably and looked up at each of the detectives in turn. Wade kept his serious look in place until she looked up at him. Then he couldn't help but smile. He didn't want her to be scared.

She looked away. "It was a person in a chicken suit."


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

"Oh my gosh, I know who that is!" Preston yelled and jumped up.

Jim just stared at where his wife was sitting. It was no wonder she hadn't wanted to tell him earlier. A person in a chicken suit? How were they supposed to track that down? An investigation like this could drag on for years. Christie wouldn't be able to supply height, weight, physique, race, sex, or any distinguishing characteristics.

"I know who that is!" Preston was dancing around, then there was a scuffle, and a chair scooting back.

"Hey!" Christie yelled.

"Is he hugging her?" Jim asked Tom before taking action.

"Yup."

Jim moved forward and put his hands out to separate them. "Don't hug my wife."

"But I can solve this thing, man! Easy! The guy who wears the chicken suit is on my bowling team. His name's Ernest." Preston threw his arms around Jim. "My second murder case, and I've already solved it!"

"Wade," Paul said calmly. "Would Ernest kill someone in cold blood like this?"

The room fell silent for a minute. "Maybe..." Preston's voice had a defeated quality to it. "You guys, he told me in confidence… Ernest doesn't like working at Mr. Burger." It sounded like he was hanging his head and talking to the floor as he relayed that terrible revelation. "If only I'd told someone sooner!"

"Wade," Paul said, "let's head over to Mr. Burger and talk to Ernest. Okay?"

"I don't know if I should go," Wade whispered. "Ernest trusted me with his secret. I betrayed him!"

"Oh come on," Paul said, sounding exasperated. "You've never kept a secret in your life."

"Sure I have."

"This is a murder investigation," Paul said. "That was information we needed to know."

Jim waved a hand to get attention. "The murder took place in the middle of a field right outside town."

"The chicken ran off when I stopped the car," Christie informed them. She'd been a bit tongue-tied at the time of the murder, so Jim was learning along with everyone else. "The chicken was kicking a man, and I thought it looked a little odd, so I pulled over. It had a gun in its hand—"

"Wing," Preston said. "Chickens have—"

"I know chickens have wings!" Christie said, exasperated. "But this was a man—or a woman—in a chicken suit. Whoever it was pulled out a gun—"

"From where?" Preston asked, sounding naively disgusted.

Christie didn't answer, so Jim continued. "Just because this Ernest guy didn't like his job, what would he be doing two miles from the restaurant killing someone? Most job-related crimes take place on-scene in the heat of the moment."

"That's true," Paul said.

"Did we get an ID on the body?" Jim asked.

"Wade?" Paul asked.

"I haven't had time to get down to the morgue yet," Preston said.

"Well, you know everyone in town, right? Let's go ID the body."

Christie stood up and Jim took her arm.

"Ma'am, no offense, but you're a civilian. And a lady," Wade said. "You should stay here."

"Jim?" Christie asked.

"It's okay. Stay here. I'll be back." Jim looked over to where Tom had been standing. "Tom?"

"Right here."

Jim took Tom's arm and let the other detective lead him out of the room.

"See, Denny?" some cop said, "that's how close partners are supposed to be."

"Ramirez, he's just leading the blind guy," Boyer said.

"We can learn a lot from them, Denny."

"Let go of my arm, Ramirez!"

Two sets of footsteps hurried off.

Hank jumped up and Jim took his harness. They followed Preston and Gigante.

* * *

"What's going on?" Captain Stiles asked. He stopped outside his office and watched Wade and Paul walking toward the door with the two detectives from New York following closely.

"We're just working on the murder investigation," Paul said, pausing just long enough to nod to the captain, then turning back toward the front door.

"You should let the New York guys handle it, Paul. They're used to things like that."

"Captain, I'm from DC. I've handled my fair share of murder investigations."

"Then letting them take it from here won't bother you. Old hat, it's boring." Stiles smiled benignly at them.

"But, boss!" Wade complained. "I want to help!"

"I'm sure you do, Wade, but don't get in their way." Stiles grabbed Wade's sleeve and pulled him aside. "We don't have murderers in Bakersfield. They'll never find the perp, so let them take the rap when the case falls apart, okay?"

"But we have a dead body. Obviously _someone_ killed him. And we have a witness. This isn't like when I just had the _arm_. This is better!"

"Wade, I hate to break it to you, but with our low crime rate, the chances of finding a murderer here are very slim. Go on home." He patted the detective on the arm and turned toward his office. "Oh, Phil, there you are! Did you get lunch?"

"Not yet, Captain," Sergeant Hampton said, stopping outside the captain's office.

"If you guys want to stay behind, we'll handle it," Tom Selway said.

"That's very sweet," Wade said, "but this is our jurisdiction. We're _letting _you help." He patted Tom on the shoulder much the same way Stiles had patted Wade.

"Phil," Stiles said, "tell these crazy kids there's absolutely nothing for them to worry about. Just because we might possibly, hypothetically, have one dead body in Bakersfield, that does not mean someone's out to kill us all." He pushed past the sergeant and slammed the door to his office, cowering in the corner of the room he'd darkened earlier by pulling the blinds shut. That had been a very decisive decision he'd made on his own, to keep out the light, and the criminals.

* * *

Wade opened the front door to the station and stepped out into the burning sun. He glanced to his right and saw Detective Tom Selway of the NYPD. To his left was Detective Paul Gigante, formerly of the DCPD. Wade felt a little shiver go through him and he grinned. He slipped an arm through each of the other detective's arms.

Selway pulled back first and stopped walking. Paul pulled away, too.

"Wade," he said, "what have I told you about personal space?"

"Sorry, Paul," Wade said. "It's just so exciting. Isn't it exciting?"

"Sorry," Paul said, turning to Tom, who was standing next to Jim Dunbar and the dog.

Wade opened his mouth to protest. He didn't want Paul apologizing for him.

"He just gets really excited around black people," Paul continued.

"Why?" Selway asked, his forehead wrinkling as he looked over at Wade.

Wade leaned closer and smiled. "I just feel like I'm part black, that's all. We have a bond, we're brothers."

Tom Selway laughed and turned around, taking in the place. "You guys are screwy. Where's the morgue?" He lifted his arms and spun in place. A vulture chose that moment to start circling overhead. Some dust lifted as a tumbleweed rolled by.

"You think we have a morgue in the station? What is this, the LAPD?" Wade asked. "We have to go down to the hospital."

Dunbar's head lowered, and Tom looked up at the sky. "Unbelievable," Selway said.

"You guys have never been to a hospital?"

"Where is the hospital?" Selway asked. "Fresno? LA? San Francisco?"

"We have a lot of crime, you know, so the officers tend to get banged up pretty often. Where would we go every time we got shot if we didn't have our own hospital?"

* * *

"Tom, I'll ride with you, okay?" Jim said.

Tom glanced at Jim as the other detective's hand landed on the sleeve of his jacket and momentarily gripped the hell out of it. Jim actually looked worried that Tom would turn down the request. "Yeah," Tom hurried to tell him.

"You guys don't want to ride with us?" Detective Preston asked, sounding hurt.

Tom wavered, but when he looked back and saw Wade and Paul standing next to a pea green Gremlin, he shook his head. "No room with the dog, sorry," he said.

"But we can pretend we're undercover. And listen to theme songs," Wade pleaded. "I have an 8-track player. We can listen to anything you want."

"Honest, we would…" Tom shrugged off the rest of the answer.

"We'll see you there!" Jim called, then slid into the front seat of Tom's car and slammed the door. "Are these guys for real?" he asked when Tom turned on the car and blasted the air conditioning.

"You've been here longer than I have. You tell me," Tom said. He pulled out of the lot and followed at a discreet distance.

"Let's just solve the case and get out of here." Jim slid down in the seat a little, his head facing the side window.

Tom pulled out onto the highway. "How? You wanna have a six-foot-tall chicken line-up?"

"It was more like seven feet, with the head," Jim mumbled.

"Jim!" But he finally snickered, thinking Jim was joking. Tom didn't always catch on right away when Jim was joking. "Oh well," Tom said. "This is better than the convention, right?"

"Tom," Jim said, "my wife just witnessed a murder. How is that better?"

* * *

"This is the morgue?" Selway asked.

Wade watched the New York detective look around the one tiny room in the basement of the hospital. He walked over to the wall and held up a hand to point out the stencil job on the painted concrete blocks. "Morgue" was painted up there in all capitals. "Yeah, this is the morgue," Wade said. They'd had a bit of a mix-up the year before when an intern thought the room was for post-surgery, and they'd nearly done an autopsy on some guy who hadn't yet come out of anesthesia after heart surgery. That had been a rude awakening for the patient, not to mention that the doctor who was planning to perform the autopsy had never had a dead patient wake up on him before. It was just better all around to have things properly labeled. Someone had even gone so far as to stencil "hallway" all the way down the hall.

"There's only one table."

"Do we really need more than one?" Wade asked. "How many dead people do you want here?"

Paul pulled the sheet back from the face. "Wade? Do you know who this is?"

Wade's mouth dropped open. "It's Ernest!"

The body was covered with feathers, as if the man really had been attacked by a giant chicken. One of the feathers was dislodged and floated in the air. Tom watched it in disbelief.

"The guy who wears the chicken suit?" Dunbar asked.

The feather landed on Hank's nose and the dog sneezed.

"Yeah!" Wade said. "But if he wasn't wearing the suit, who was?"

"Someone else?" Selway suggested.

"But Ernest never let anyone else wear his chicken suit. Believe me; I asked."

* * *

Wade winked at the drive-through girl at Mr. Burger.

"Hi, Wade," she flirted. "I'll get the manager. You want a soda while you wait?" She leaned down to show off her cleavage in the maroon and blue Mr. Burger uniform, which had the top three buttons undone in the heat.

"Sure, Sherry, I'd love one."

Dunbar shifted in the seat next to Wade. "Why are we doing an interview in the drive-through? We should go in and talk to the guy in his office."

"Yeah," Selway piped up from the back seat. The dog panted between Tom and Paul, all sandwiched in the back of the Gremlin. "We should go in; it's more professional."

"You guys don't know Hamish like I do," Wade said. "He would be greatly offended if we went inside."

"We should really give notification inside."

"He tends to overreact to bad news."

"Wade," Sherry the drive-through waitress said, "here's your soda. Hamish will be here soon. He's on the phone." She handed down the soda, then slid the window to the drive-through closed and stood up there, smiling down through the window.

"Why does Mr. Burger have a chicken for a mascot?" Dunbar asked, staring out the side window.

"It was the only costume left at the shop," Wade said, wiggling his fingers in Sherry's direction. She waved back.

Wade set his soda down and jabbed Dunbar quickly in the shoulder a couple times. Dunbar turned. "What's your favorite TV cop show?"

"Wade, you can't ask a blind guy what his favorite TV show is," Paul whispered urgently.

"Why not? Just because you never answered the question doesn't mean he won't."

"But he can't see."

Wade shrugged.

"_Car 54, Where Are You?_" Jim said, leaning back against the door to face Wade straight on.

Wade stared at the man, his mouth open. Jim seemed serious enough, not blinking, not smiling. "You're kidding, right?"

Dunbar shook his head. "How can you go wrong with Fred Gwynne?"

"But… but—that doesn't count. That was a sitcom; it's not like real life."

"Wade," Paul said, "what would you know about real life?"

"But—" Wade kept protesting.

* * *

Tom swallowed a lump in his own throat. Hamish had his head down on the drive-through counter, sobbing hysterically over the death of his favorite employee.

"Why Ernest?" Hamish lamented. "Why? Why not me? Or Sherry? I was going to fire her, anyway. But Ernest was the Chicken."

"I know," Wade said, trying to comfort the man through the three-inch gap in the window. He'd closed it, he told the other detectives when they asked, just in case. Now the four of them and the dog were sweltering in the car, and Wade wouldn't tell them in case of what. "He was a great chicken," Wade continued sympathetically.

"The best," Hamish said.

Tom had to turn away from the red face in the little window. Now that was a great boss. If their lieutenant cared that much about each of them, Tom was sure he'd like his job even that much more. He would never call in sick if Fisk took everything this personally.

"And how the man could chicken dance. He started it at my daughter's wedding last year, you know. That was the best darn chicken dance this county has seen in years!" Hamish started sobbing even harder and blew his nose into a stack of napkins.

"Do you know who would want to kill Ernest?" Jim called.

Hamish wailed.

Preston put a hand on Jim's arm briefly. "Let me handle this," he told Dunbar. "This is a very delicate situation."

Hamish swept everything off the counter onto the floor.

"Hamish!" Wade yelled. "It'll be okay. We'll find the guy who did this."

"Ask him about the chicken suit," Tom said.

"Hamish! Was Ernest the only one in town with a chicken suit?"

"Of course he was the only one! How many guys do you know around here who could pull off dressing as a giant chicken?" Hamish's face got redder as he hefted the cash register into the air and threw it backwards at the grill. He growled, hands in the air. "Ernest, my son! With you gone, there is no Mr. Burger!"

"Is he going to destroy the place?" Tom asked.

"He might set fire to it like he did last year."

"He set fire to his own restaurant?" Jim asked.

"Well, Mr. Burger had just died. He was the last mascot before they got the Chicken."

"The last mascot died, too? How?"

"He was 95."

Jim turned away, one hand over his mouth as he stared toward the window. "Is Hamish going to be able to give us any pertinent information?"

Tom turned back to watch Hamish as he pulled all the hoses off the back of the soda machine and sprayed the restaurant. He opened the drive-through window and sprayed the car, but not before Wade managed to roll up the window.

"This is how he grieves," Wade said, quietly turning to explain. "It's okay. He'll be fine in a few minutes."

Tom jumped when there was a knock on Jim's window.

Wade waved. "It's Sherry, you can roll down the window," he told Jim.

Jim fumbled for the handle and rolled the window down halfway.

"Hi, Wade," Sherry said seductively. "I thought I should get out of there while I could."

"That's a good idea, Sherry. You'll probably get off work early tonight," Wade said.

"That's good," she said. "I wanted to go visit my mom. It's her birthday, you know."

Tom looked away. Hamish was bashing the wall with a french fry basket.

"Tell her happy birthday," Wade said.

"I will. I felt bad last year. I didn't get to go visit her grave."

"I know. But with any luck you'll get out there this year."

"Yeah." She smiled and leaned closer to the car. "I just thought I should tell you, with Hamish in the state he is, that he was on the phone earlier with the guy who took the chicken suit. He was trying to get a ransom for it."

Hank sneezed in Tom's face and Tom pushed the dog away.

"A ransom?" Paul asked.

"Oh, hi, Paul, didn't see you there." Sherry blew him a kiss and Paul gave a tight smile. "Who are your friends, Wade? You look awfully familiar," she said to Jim.

"They're from New York," Wade said. "They're helping out on the case."

"Oh, that's nice. You'll like Bakersfield, I'm sure. But I should get back to work."

"Sherry," Jim said, holding up a hand. "You don't know who was on the phone, do you? The guy who took the chicken suit?"

She laughed, a high tinkling sound. "Of course I know! I am the one who answered the phone, silly."

"Well?" Jim prompted.

"Winston Glade, you know, from the photo studio at the mall? He's great with little kids. He can always get them to smile."

"I bet the chicken suit would be good for business," Wade said.

"I'm sure it would." Sherry straightened up. "Well, ta-ta, boys. Good luck." She waved and headed back toward the building. "Hamish!" she yelled. "Don't make me call the fire department again!"

"Well, there we have it," Jim said. He opened his door. "We'll meet you guys back at the station, okay?"

Tom slid out the back of the car and held the seat up for the dog, then followed Jim the six feet back to where he'd parked his own car.

* * *

"A Thousand Words, how can I help you?" the voice on the phone said. "A photo of your child or a photo of your family?"

Wade cleared his throat. "Can I talk to Winston Glade?"

"I'm sorry, we don't allow personal phone calls. A photo of your child or a photo of your family?"

Wade looked up at Paul. He covered the receiver with his hand. "They won't let me talk to him. We'll have to get a picture taken."

"What? Wade, we're police officers, we don't need permission," Paul said.

"Which one's cheaper?" Wade asked the young man on the phone.

"The single child would be the cheapest option," the man said.

Wade covered the phone again. "Paul, can we borrow your son?"

"Wade!"

"I don't have any kids of my own, Paul. You know that."

Paul snatched the phone out of his hand. "Hello? Yes, is Mr. Glade working today?… Yes, of course… Fine, yes, I'm requesting him as a photographer… Is he working?… Lunch? Do you know where?… Can we come after lunch?…" Paul sighed. "Oh fine, a family photograph, just put us down for that, okay?" Paul slammed the phone down. "He's at lunch, but he should be back in an hour."

Wade grinned up at Paul. "I'm part of your family?" he asked, so happy he was about to cry.

"Don't even think of hugging me," Paul said, stepping back with a hand in the air. He moved so his desk was between the two of them.

Wade looked around. He needed to hug someone. Dunbar was closest.

* * *

Jim followed Tom closely. "It's a little diner," Tom whispered. "Looks like we'll be at a table for four. They have one menu on the table… packets of sugar and stuff… and a basket of crackers. The menu is in the middle, the crackers will be on your left, sugar will be on my right, ketchup in the middle… Restrooms straight back and to the right, windows to the left, counter to the right. Here's the table."

Jim winked at Tom while he had his back to the other two detectives. They'd come up with a little conspiracy in the car, figuring if Paul and Wade were going to toy with them and pretend this was normal, they were going to toy back.

"Jim," Tom said stiffly, "could you pass me a baguette, please?" He enunciated every word to the point of almost sounding British.

"Sure, Thomas." Jim ran his hand across the table to a little basket filled with double-packs of saltine crackers. He held it out to Tom and waited for him to take a pack.

"Thank you very much," Tom said in his affected voice. "James, we really should take these boys out for a rousing game of tennis. After tea, of course."

"Absolutely," Jim said.

Jim could hear Paul moving across the table, probably reading the menu, but Wade, directly to his left, was completely quiet.

"Are you sure you're black?" Wade finally asked.

"Of course," Tom said.

The waitress popped up, diffusing the tension momentarily.

"You know," Jim said after they ordered, "my mom was black."

He heard silence across the table and to his left. To his right he heard Tom shrugging out of his suit coat and putting it across the back of his chair, then reaching for a paper packet, probably of sugar, tearing it open and pouring it into his coffee.

"My dad was white," Paul said uncomfortably to fill the silence.

"Are you sure?" Wade asked Jim. "Is that possible? I mean, Paul here, his dad…"

"Oh, yeah, it happens all the time," Jim said.

"Certainly," Tom said.

"Yeah, but you don't look—I mean, do you even know what you look like?" Wade asked.

Jim blinked at Wade with a straight face. "What do you mean? What do I look like?"

"You—you can't be black," Wade protested.

"Why not? I'm very groovy."

"Who told you that your mom was black?"

"Why would anyone need to tell me my mom was black?"

"Because you—you're blind."

"I'm blind!" Jim stared over at Tom quickly. "Tom! I'm blind!"

Tom snorted. "Dunbar, you give me that look, I'm gonna spit coffee out my nose." He pushed Jim away.

Jim turned back to Preston and shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, Wade."

"You were joking?" Wade sounded relieved.

"Both my parents were white," Jim said.

"And he hasn't been blind all that long," Tom added.

"How long have you been blind?" Paul finally asked after a nice laugh at Wade's expense.

"About two years."

"Really? I'd have thought you were born blind. How long have you been a cop?"

"I've been reinstated about a year, but I've been a detective for eleven years, a cop for about sixteen years."

"I was a detective in DC for twelve years with the same partner," Paul said.

"DC?" Jim said. "I don't think I could ever live anywhere but New York."

"Except for our murder rate, DC has a really low crime rate." Paul took a sip of his coffee. "How'd you go blind?"

"I was shot."

"Really?" Wade jumped in. "I got shot once!"

Jim just shook his head a little, staring down at the table. He gave Wade a little smile to humor the kid.

"Where'd you get shot?" Wade asked.

"In the head."

"Me, too! Can you believe that? What a coincidence!"

"You got shot _in the head_?" Jim asked in a disbelieving tone.

"Yeah!"

"He did," Paul put in. "I was there. The guy from _The Rockford Files_ shot him."

Jim laughed. "For a second there, I actually believed you."


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Jim's cell phone rang and he pulled it out. He stopped walking just outside the diner on the way to Tom's car. They were going to head back to the police department before going down to the mall to talk to Glade.

"What's that?" Preston asked.

"My cell phone." Jim flipped it open.

"Wow… that's really small." He moved closer to get a better look while Jim answered.

"Dunbar."

"Jim," Karen said. "Where are you? The convention started hours ago."

"Tom and I are in Bakersfield. He was the only one I could get a hold of," Jim said.

"Why, what happened?" Karen asked, sounding concerned.

"Christie witnessed a murder."

"That's terrible! Are you guys okay?"

Jim laughed. "Karen, I don't think you can ask that question."

"Why not? What's going on?"

"You'll never believe a word of it."

"That's true," Tom said.

"Why not?" Wade asked.

"Do you want me to find Marty and drive down?"

"I don't think there's anything you guys could do. No, I definitely don't think you should come here."

"Jim, are you okay? Is Christie okay?"

Jim froze. "Oh, geez. I hope Christie's okay. We left her back at the police department."

"Of course she's okay," Wade said with a laugh.

* * *

If there was one thing Christie Dunbar usually had, it was her dignity. But as she looked back and forth between the two officers in front of her, she felt she was in grave danger of losing her dignity.

"Well?" Luke Ramirez asked.

"Yeah, well?" Denny Boyer seconded.

"I, uh…" Christie stammered. The boys had just performed an amazing feat, which they called interpretive art. They'd attempted it several times, but only managed to complete it once. Ramirez tossed a piece of toast into the air and Boyer shot a hole in it before it landed. Then Boyer had thrown up an egg and Ramirez had shot it.

"We call it "Breakfast,"" Boyer said.

"Should we add the scene from Shakespeare?" Ramirez asked.

Christie stared between the two of them. She didn't think Shakespeare was even the issue there.

"The winner of the talent show gets a years' supply of windshield washer fluid," Boyer said.

"And I think it's essential to have the Shakespeare in order to win," Ramirez said.

"You can't expect me to remember Shakespeare and shoot straight."

"We need the Shakespeare to distract them in case it takes more than one shot for you to hit the bread, Denny."

"I can hit the bread just fine."

"It took you four tries."

"I'll practice. It's a moving target."

"What do you think?" Ramirez asked Christie again.

Christie was still staring at the three holes in the drywall and the broken light swinging from the ceiling. She was still shaking from the ricochet. Her mouth was still open in horror, her ears ringing from the consecutively bad shots. "Is it safe?" she finally asked with as much dignity as she could muster.

Ramirez laughed. "What's dangerous about Shakespeare?"

Boyer rubbed at some egg on the wall. "Do you think we should use a hardboiled egg?"

"The splatter speaks to me, Denny. I won't do it with a cooked egg."

* * *

Wade closed his desk drawer and put his slinky back on top of his monitor. He checked to make sure his gun was loaded with the safety on, then stood up. He was ready to go. Paul was doing some last-minute paperwork at his desk, but the detectives from New York looked ready. Bored, but ready. They were standing in front of Wade's desk, waiting.

"You might want to borrow a bullet-proof vest," Wade said.

"Why?" Dunbar asked.

"Have you ever been to our mall?"

Tom took the vest Wade held out to him. "I dunno, Jim, but I think I'll do what they say."

Jim cocked his head to the side as he looked over at Tom. "Tom, seriously?"

"Any guy who goes out on his lunch break and dresses as a giant chicken, shoots someone, then goes back to work photographing children, he has to be unbalanced."

"True." Dunbar held a hand out and Wade handed him a vest, too.

"Why don't you boys come in here a moment," Phil Hampton suggested from the door of the captain's office. "The captain wants a briefing."

The four detectives filed in and Phil shut the door after them.

"Where is the captain?" Tom Selway asked.

"He won't be coming."

Selway laughed. "You're joking, right?"

"If you hang around Bakersfield long enough, you'll learn the captain doesn't like to know certain things. This being one of them." Phil caught Selway trying to exchange a disbelieving look with Dunbar. He cleared his throat. "How's the case going?"

"We're headed to the mall to talk to Winston Glade," Wade said.

"The guy from A Thousand Words?"

"Yeah, him."

"You all have your vests?" Sergeant Hampton asked. He looked around.

"I think we're set, Serg," Wade said.

"You have a plan?"

"Uh…"

* * *

Paul sized up Tom Selway. He looked like a good man, a decent cop. He looked a lot like Paul had felt his first week in Bakersfield: totally overwhelmed and confused.

"Hey," Paul said quietly, "when we split up, you want to come with me?" Tom blinked over at him. "I mean, we'd want to have someone who knows where they're going in each group, right? And, no offense, but I think your friend and Wade could work well together."

"Why?" Tom asked.

"You and me are normal. But you know, a blind cop? That sounds like something that would only happen in Bakersfield."

Tom laughed and looked over at Jim standing there with the dog and wearing a bullet-proof vest outside a mall in California. "I know what you mean."

"Wade," Paul called over, "you and Dunbar head up from the lingerie section. Tom and I will cover you from sporting goods."

Wade almost looked offended. "It's because I'm not black, isn't it?"

"What, you and Dunbar want to head in from sporting goods?"

* * *

"You don't carry a gun?" Wade stared at Dunbar in horror. What would he do without his gun? He had to pull it every day, at least. And he probably got a chance to shoot it once a week. If not at people, then at cars and snakes.

"I don't need one."

"But I thought, in New York, that you'd have to use it _all the time_."

"We almost never have to draw our weapons," Dunbar said.

Wade laughed. "Yeah, right."

Wade pushed a moveable rack of lingerie in front of them to hide their progression toward the photography department. He had his gun ready. "Could you duck, just a little? You stand out too much."

"Why don't we just walk right up and ask Mr. Glade a few questions?" Dunbar asked. He didn't oblige with a crouch, and he really did stand out, walking straight and tall while Wade tried to sneak.

"Never underestimate the element of surprise," Wade said. He stopped and peered out of the rack. "Paul and Tom are in place. Ready?"

Jim sighed. "Ready."

Wade pushed through the lingerie rack and jumped forward, weapon drawn and leveled at Glade, who was taking pictures of a four-year-old and a live bunny. Glade had a lobster hat on his head and was dancing around, trying to get the kid to smile. Dunbar followed less explosively, stepping around the rack. Without a gun, he looked unprepared. Wade moved in front of the blind guy. If anyone was going to get shot, Wade would take the bullet. "Freeze, Glade!"

Winston Glade stopped in mid-dance move, one arm crooked at the elbow, the other on his hip. The element of surprise had worked.

* * *

The kid was screaming. Wade held both hands up to his ears, even though he still had his gun in one hand.

"Can we talk to you, Mr. Glade?" Jim Dunbar was asking loudly.

"I'd almost gotten him to smile," Glade complained.

"I think he's scared of that thing on your head," Wade said, pointing.

"This? Kids love this hat!"

Jim waved toward the kid. "Is his mom here? We really need to talk to you."

Wade walked over and pulled the lobster off of Winston's head. The kid stopped crying for a second. "There, I told you so—" The kid started screaming again. "Never mind." He handed the hat back.

"I'm his mom. And his dad. It was a quiet day, so I thought it would be a good time to take his picture," Glade said. "And he loves this hat." Glade looked offended as he cradled the hat.

"You can't tell me you're his mom," Wade said. "I know better."

"She died—"

"So? You're still not his mom."

"Wade," Jim said.

"What? You're not helping here, Dunbar."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Cuff him."

"In front of his son?" Jim shook his head. "Let's just calmly talk this out."

"Is this a stick-up?" Glade asked, raising his hands tentatively.

"Uh, Mr. Glade," a young man said quietly, poking his head in the doorway. "I think they're here for your three o'clock family portrait."

* * *

Tom slunk through the employee break room with Paul Gigante. Jim and Preston were still out front, interviewing Glade and trying to calm down a screaming four-year-old.

"Feathers," Gigante said. He pointed at a small pile in the corner on the floor. A coat was hung on the wall over them.

Tom headed over. The pockets of the jacket were bulging with feathers. He grabbed it. "Let's go ask him." They went back into the photo studio with the jacket. "Is this yours, Mr. Glade?" Tom asked.

"That's my jacket, yes…" the man said, looking confused. "But I don't know what it's doing here. It's 90 degrees outside."

Tom glanced at Paul and shrugged. That was true. "You have no idea how it got here? Or why the pockets are filled with chicken feathers?"

"Feathers?" Now Glade looked really confused.

"Yeah, feathers," Wade piped up.

"Where have you been all day?" Jim asked.

"San Francisco," Glade said.

"Why?"

"I had a breakfast meeting."

"All the way in San Francisco?"

"Yeah. And I knew I wouldn't be back before lunch… I'm really sorry I wasn't here to take your family photograph, but that's no reason to come up here with guns. We can do it now, if you want." Glade was hugging the lobster hat to his chest. Tom surmised, from Glade's statement, that Jim hadn't gotten to the heart of the matter yet, not with Wade in tow. Jim normally didn't dilly-dally, but if Preston had started the questioning first, there was no telling what they'd been doing while Tom and Paul had been in the break room.

"Do you have any proof you were in San Francisco?"

"Do you want to talk to the lady I was with? I'm the only photographer who can get her son to smile. He's two, and you know how they are at that age…" Glade shrugged. "Or will the receipt from breakfast be enough? I stopped and got gas on the way back, too. You want the receipt from that, too?" He pulled out his wallet and produced two pieces of paper.

Tom looked them over. "They look legit," he told Jim.

"What would you say if I said we have someone saying you stole a chicken costume this morning?" Jim asked.

"The chicken costume? That thing would really help business. I've been trying to get Ernest to sell it to me for a couple years, but I wouldn't steal it," Winston said.

"You wouldn't kill Ernest because he wouldn't sell it?" Tom asked.

"What? No!"

"The alibi's pretty solid," Tom said and handed back the receipts. "But don't go anywhere."

"Do you know anyone who would kill Ernest for the costume?" Jim asked.

"That was more than just a costume, it was a way of life for Ernest. No one would separate him from it," Glade said. "That would just be wrong."

"Thanks for your time; we'll be in touch," Paul said.

The detectives headed out. "So much for the bullet-proof vests," Wade said sadly. "I was hoping it would be more like the last time I came to the mall."

* * *

They started back at the beginning. The police had taped off a section of the empty field where Christie had first noticed the chicken, and the detectives all headed there.

"They didn't find anything?" Jim asked. He could feel the emptiness of the area. Christie had told him it was mostly dirt, with a few plants and sagebrush, desolate mountains far away for background. Some small creature scampered by when Jim followed Hank into its territory. He heard some big bird screech overhead. Other than that it was hot and empty, not a breeze on the air. He couldn't smell anything out of the ordinary and would just have to rely on the other detectives to figure out if anything was there.

Hank sneezed when they stopped at the tape.

"Anything?" Jim asked Tom.

"Feathers."

Hank sneezed again.

Tom moved the tape aside and started scouring the area.

"Did they ever find the slug?" Jim asked.

"It was still in the body," Paul said.

"So we need to find the gun so we can match it."

"Everyone around here has a gun," Paul quietly told him. "Good luck going that route."

Jim jumped when a shot rang out. When his ears cleared he realized he was clutching Paul's arm and they were both on the ground. "What the hell?" Jim asked.

"There was a snake," Wade said.

"Did you get it?" Jim asked sarcastically. He sat up and dusted his suit off. A couple soft feathers had attached themselves to his lapel. Hank pressed against him and sneezed again.

"Look at this," Paul said, still lying in the dirt.

Jim leaned closer. "What?"

"Not you."

Tom and Wade came back to see what Paul had found.

"It's a coupon for Mr. Burger's special smoothie," Wade said in awe.

"But wouldn't Ernest have some coupons?"

"They wouldn't trust the chicken with something like this. He only got coupons for ice cream cones."

* * *

They were all crammed back in the Gremlin with the windows rolled up as Wade cautiously pulled up to the drive-through window of Mr. Burger. Wade inched the window down and put the car in park. The theme song from Jaws was playing on the 8-track.

Smoke was pouring out the drive-through window and loud banging noises were coming from inside, but Wade couldn't see through the smoke well enough to see what Hamish was up to. He honked.

"Hamish!" Wade yelled out the crack in the window. "Are you all right in there?"

A crash answered, louder than before.

"I'm coming in!" Wade opened the door. "You guys get ready to drive away if anything happens." He turned back momentarily, a little worried. "Someone other than Jim drive, okay?"

Jim opened his own door and started to step out. "We'll come with."

"No! Close the door!" Wade slammed his door, but it was too late. Dunbar was already out of the car. "Stay here," Wade ordered. He inched up to the side of the drive-through window. "Hamish! Is anyone in there with you?" He pushed the window open fully and prepared to hoist himself up, using the tire of the Gremlin for leverage.

Wade coughed as his head went in the window and pulled back out.

The dog sneezed. Wade dropped to the ground, his gun pulled and leveled. He knew what it meant when the dog sneezed.

"Wade," Sherry laughed, "it's just me."

"Put your hands in the air, Sherry."

"But Wade—"

Wade kept his gun trained on Sherry as he walked around the car. She appeared to be unarmed, but Wade knew better than to trust a woman. "I said, put your hands up."

"Why?" She giggled like the blonde she wasn't.

"You're under arrest for impersonating a chicken, stealing Ernest's costume, and for murdering the real chicken in cold blood."

"What makes you think I would do something like that?" She blinked up at Wade and smiled a little.

Wade pulled the coupon out of his pocket. "This coupon—they only come from the drive-through. You were always jealous of Ernest. Hamish was going to fire you. The dog's allergic to feathers and only sneezes when you're around. And—only a woman would shoot a man like that."

"I'm not armed, Wade," she whispered. "Come and get me."

Jim was standing only two feet away. He pulled out his handcuffs and cuffed her before she could move.

"Hey! I told Wade to do it; not you," she protested. She sighed. "But I guess you're pretty cute, too." She stood up on tiptoe and kissed Jim on the cheek. "Be gentle," she whispered.

* * *

Jim sat on the edge of Wade's desk. Christie was sitting in Wade's chair and Tom and Paul were at Paul's desk. Jim was playing with a bank that had been sitting on Wade's desk, a little safe with a hole in the top for coins. Jim twiddled the dial while he waited.

"I'll be glad to get back to the hotel and relax," Christie said.

"Hon, what do these guys look like?" Jim asked.

"Why?"

"I dunno. I just feel like I need to know." He heard Christie take a deep breath to explain.

"Boy!" Wade said, coming up. "This was sure fun, wasn't it?"

Christie settled back into the chair and Jim went back to fiddling with the safe.

"Congratulations!" Sergeant Hampton said, coming up. "If I could find the captain, I'm sure he would extend his gratitude."

"Is that all you need from us?" Tom asked.

"If you ever need to escape the big city, we'll keep a place open on our force."

"Thanks…"

Jim smiled over at Tom and the chagrined tone of his voice.

"Serg!" one of the traffic officers complained. "Tell Boyer he can't open the holding cell."

"She smiled at me, Sergeant," Boyer said. "My one weakness."

"Don't let it happen again," Hampton replied.

"Oh, hey, Mrs. Dunbar," Boyer greeted Christie, sounding like he was blushing and awkward. "You're not leaving already, are you?"

"Yes," Christie said quickly.

"We could really use your help," Ramirez told her.

Jim grimaced. Under his fingers, he felt the dial of the safe catch and the door spring open as he accidentally hit the right combination. Coins dribbled out onto the floor and Jim slammed the door shut before everything fell out. Jim felt Christie move to pick up a couple errant coins.

"Hey!" Wade exclaimed.

"Let me get those for you," Boyer told Christie.

"Sorry," Jim said and quickly set down the safe.

Christie stood up, taking Jim's hand. "I'm so glad you're clumsy," she whispered.

Wade picked the bank back up. "It's locked."

"Yeah, sorry. I didn't mean to open it," Jim said.

"What's the combination?" Wade sounded sincere.

Jim blinked over at the kid as Christie pressed against him, like she was worried to be in the presence of a couple of traffic cops.

The phone rang. "Detective Preston," Wade answered. "Uh huh, yeah… No, really? The family photograph? Let me ask."

* * *

Captain Stiles tiptoed into the morgue wearing all black. He'd enlisted the help of a young orderly, slipping him five dollars and a coupon for doughnuts. "Bring the gurney," he said. "I'll get the lights when you're in place."

"Ready," the orderly said a minute later and Stiles hit the lights and listened as the orderly grunted and heaved. "Done! Now what, sir?"

"Get rid of it, but make sure no one sees you," Stiles whispered in the dark.

"It's just a body."

"Don't argue. If there's no body, there was no crime. If there's no crime, we can stop investigating the murder, can't we?"

"Is that you, Captain Stiles? I was warned about you." The orderly started to push the gurney back into place to replace the body.

"My name is Pedro. I already paid you! Get to work!" Stiles waited until the man had pushed the gurney into the lit hallway before turning the lights back on and slinking nonchalantly out the door.

* * *

Jim felt almost overwhelmed by chatter and people pressing around him in a tight group. He faced straight ahead and tried to smile, tightly gripping Christie's hand.

"The body's still missing," Wade said.

"We can only charge Sherry with stealing the chicken suit if we don't find the body," Paul said.

"Can you get a little closer?" Winston Glade asked. "Wade, tilt your head to the right a little."

"I don't like the background," Selway said.

"This is artistic," Glade said. "I wouldn't expect a cop to understand."

"It's the inside of a jail cell; what's not to understand?"

"I really think we should get going to the convention," Jim put in.

"We all saw the dead body, right?" Christie asked. "Doesn't that count for something? I saw the man get shot."

"If there's any doubt that he actually died, we can't make the charges stick," Jim said. "They could argue the gun was filled with blanks and it was all a joke and Ernest is still alive somewhere. Then we just have a missing person's case."

"But who would be crazy enough to steal a dead body?" Christie asked.

"We have a long list," Wade said. "We'll start looking in as soon as we're done here."

"Paul, can't you get your kid to smile?" Glade asked.

"I don't like the lobster hat, Dad," Paulie said.

"Kids love this hat!"

"Dad!"

"We make a great family, Paul," Wade said.

"Say "cheese,"" Glade ordered.

"I don't think we should," Wade said. "There's too many cows around here."

"Jim, why's your dog yawning? Can you get him to stop? I'm never going to get a good picture at this rate," Glade said.

"Can I be in the picture?" Luke Ramirez asked.

"Luke! Where'd you come from?" Paul asked.

"Fine," Glade said. "Get in the picture."

"Can Denny come, too? I lost him in sporting goods, but I'm sure I can find him," Luke said.

"One big happy family, huh, Dunbar," Tom said.

"What are you guys all doing here?" Sergeant Hampton asked. "I thought we cleared Glade of the murder charges."

"Denny, get over here," Luke said.

Jim felt someone pressing closer as they all squeezed to be in the photo.

"Why don't you join us, Serg?" Paul asked.

"Look what we have here," the captain said. "Isn't this nice?"

"Hello, there, Captain," Denny Boyer said.

"Get in the picture," Glade grumbled.

Jim felt everyone pushing even closer.

"Honey," Christie whispered, "why can't you smile more often like Wade does?"

"Phil, why wasn't I invited?" Captain Stiles asked.

"Everyone say "Bakersfield," Glade ordered.

"Why are you wearing all black, Captain Stiles?" Ramirez asked.

* * *

On top of a hill just inside Bakersfield city limits, an orderly from a local hospital was pushing a gurney covered with a sheet. He heaved it to the top of the hill, then stopped to rest, breathing hard. "Of course," he grumbled, as the gurney shifted out from under his hand and rolled away. The orderly didn't give chase. He just stood there, watching. The gurney passed the city limits sign, and the extent of his jurisdiction, and the man headed back to town, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He smiled, his white coat billowing, and went back to work. 


End file.
